


You're the one who told me (never look back)

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, no pseuds we die like andrés de fonollosa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: Andrés folds himself onto the wall next to Martín. “You always did have a problem quitting your bad habits – Helsinki seems to be a new one though.”Alternate version of seasons 3&4 where Andrés is still alive. This features Berlermo but it's Helermo endgame - please don't read if that's not your thing.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 41
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuses for this.  
> TWs for canon-typical violence, canon typical homophobia, very vague reference to self-harm.  
> Fic title from the Amazing Devil song "Shower Day"

It begins with Martín on his knees begging. Begging for Andrés to come back, begging for God to strike him down, begging for the strength to pull the trigger, begging for it all to stop, begging for someone – anyone – to tell him it’ll be okay.

Or maybe it begins with Sergio knocking on his door after five years, looking unchanged and as if nothing happened, asking Martín to come and melt gold with him.

Then again, maybe it all started much earlier than that. When Martín bought a drink for a Spanish stranger who looked out of place in the dingy Columbian bar and dedicated his whole life to him.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how it started because Martín made the same mistake each time, hitched his horse to the wrong wagon and took a chance that ended with him more fucked than before.

So he returns to the same goddamn monastery where he watched Andrés walk away from him years ago and listens to Sergio introducing him to his ‘gang’.

They’re a bunch of fucking idiots, but they’re friendly enough. And there in the middle of them, looking like a peacock among hens is Andrés. He looks exactly the same and Martín fucking hates him for it because it isn’t fair. Isn’t fair that Andrés got to leave and participate in the greatest heist in history and all Martín got was a shitty apartment and high-functioning alcoholism.

“This is Palermo,” Sergio says after he’s listed everyone else’s names.

Martín nods at them, recognising his old friends whom he now has to call Marseille and Bogota. Well, Andrés’ friends. Martín hadn’t really had friends. He only ever needed Andrés.

He takes a seat behind the big guy he thinks is called Helsinki and watches as Sergio and Andrés start to explain his plan to the others.

Anger floods him as he watches Andrés strut about in front of everyone, detailing how they’ll use the army to get in. It burns in his chest and crawls up his throat and he wants to scream, to find some way to release the pressure. At the same time, he feels paralysed, locked in place. Burning in silence as if he’s been dipped in tar and set on fire to entertain the emperor like the Christians of old. He always thought Andrés would make a good dictator.

So he sits and watches and aches until Sergio asks him to come up and explain the mechanics of the vault to the gang.

He gets to his feet and walks to the front of the room on stiff legs, feeling as if he’s walking to the gallows. Andrés brushes past him, returning to his own seat and Martín hasn’t been this close to him in so long and his body automatically gravitates towards him.

But he straightens his shoulders and starts explaining the flooding vault and the precise timing that will be necessary to break into it to a bunch of gormless thieves and ignores how every inch of him is yearning to collapse in front of Andrés and ask him why he chose destruction over love.

At dinner, Martín tries his best to ignore Andrés as the others talk. He doesn’t really know why he flirts when that Helsinki guy shows off his bear tattoo, he was honestly fairly sure he was straight, although he’d caught the big guy looking at him for a little too long during his presentation earlier.

When Helsinki sits down he gives Martín a look though, one that lets him know his attention isn’t unappreciated even though the others go quiet.

“Some things never change,” Andrés says, looking directly at Martín for the first time.

Martín clenches his jaw but doesn’t say anything, determined not to rise to the bait.

“What do you mean?” Denver asks, taking it for him.

Andrés smiles, the corners of his mouth uneven as he leans back in his chair. “Nothing, but I’m sure Tokyo will be comforted to know she’s no longer the biggest slut here.”

True chaos is silent, but Andrés was always good at creating an uproar. Tokyo spits curses at him, voice echoing in the courtyard as the table splits – some defending her, some just trying to calm things down. And there at the centre of it, Andrés just smiles.

Martín gets to his feet and slinks off, trying to ignore how it stings that they all jumped to defend Tokyo even though Martín was the real target of Andrés’ cruelty.

He doesn’t want to go back to his room. It’s the same one he had before, where he spent night after night with Andrés, drinking wine, planning to take over the world, letting his love turn him into the pathetic mess he was probably always destined to become anyway.

He goes to the roof instead. It takes him a moment to remember how to access it, but once he finds the rickety wooden staircase and heads into the attic room, squeezing out of the window, he’s glad he decided to come here.

It’s a bit chillier than in the courtyard, there’s no wind shelter after all, and he climbs carefully across the tiles before settling against the parapet dividing two sections of the monastery.

He takes a moment to wish he’d brought a jacket, before digging his cigarettes out of his jeans pocket. He shakes one out of the box and then reaches into his other pocket for his lighter only to find that it isn’t there. He groans, as he realises he knows exactly where it is: on the table next to his plate.

“Need a light?” a voice asks and a head appears in the window below him.

Martín frowns as Helsinki pulls himself through the open window and out onto the roof, holding out Martín’s lighter as he joins him.

“Did you follow me all the way out here just to give me my lighter back?” Martín questions suspiciously.

Helsinki shrugs. “Yes. And no.” He flicks open the lighter, clicking it and holding the flame towards Martín who puts his cigarette in his mouth and lets Helsinki light it for him.

“Do you want one?” Martín offers, deciding it’s only polite. Helsinki nods and Martín hands him the carton of cigarettes. He frowns as he studies the packaging. “What?” Martín asks.

“Menthols? Really?” Helsinki asks as he lights the cigarette anyway.

Martín laughs. “They’re the ones with the capsule, just don’t bite down and you’ll be fine.”

“Here,” Helsinki says, handing Martín his lighter back. “It’s a nice one.”

Martín looks down at it. “It’s just gold plated. Stole it from an auction house in Germany before I had a proper eye for valuables.”

“I think you have a good eye,” Helsinki says, but he doesn’t look at Martín, as if embarrassed by how forward he’s being.

Martín thinks of Andrés in that same auction house, the security lights casting shadows on his face, making him look unearthly. Terrifying and beautiful at once and exuding a confidence that made Martín shake with want.

“Not really,” he says. “I just pick up some really good things every now and then.”

Almost as if he can read Martín’s mind, Helsinki frowns, exhaling smoke that hangs in the chilly twilight air, before it dissipates with a wave of his hand. “How long have you and Berlin known each other? You made this plan together, right?”

“Too fucking long,” Martín says, on an inhale of mint-tinged smoke. “About thirteen years give or take. Haven’t seen him since before you guys robbed the mint though.”

“Oh,” Helsinki says with a nod. “Why didn’t you come do the mint with us?”

Martín snorts. “Isn’t that the billion-euro question. Your Professor thought I was too unstable. Too emotionally invested in… doing the bank plan with Andrés.”

“Were you?”

“Maybe,” Martín says, shifting uncomfortably.

Helsinki nods again, staring out at the rapidly darkening sky.

“So, Helsinki,” Martín says and the other man turns back to him. “Do you really have a scar from a bullet on your ass?”

Helsinki colours delightfully. “Yes.”

“Can I find out if it’s true for myself?” Martín probes and Helsinki looks shocked for a moment, but then nods. “Then let’s get off this roof, I’m fucking freezing.”

* * *

“I thought you quit smoking?” Andrés asks and Martín turns, watching Andrés cross the courtyard, coming towards him with his hands tucked elegantly into the pockets of his wine-coloured slacks.

Martín turns his back on Andrés, stubbing out his cigarette on the side of the low wall where he’s perched. “I started again.”

“Hmm,” Andrés says, folding himself onto the wall next to Martín. “You always did have a problem quitting your bad habits – Helsinki seems to be a new one though.”

Martín, for maybe the first time in his life, decides not to engage. Andrés hasn’t spoken to him directly in the three weeks since he’s been here and Martín doesn’t think he wants to stick around and hear what he has to say if that’s how he’s starting the conversation.

He pushes himself to his feet and starts to walk away, but a hand on his wrist stops him.

“Martín, stay,” Andrés appeals.

Martín, of course, does. He can’t remember the last time he denied Andrés anything.

“What?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest as he turns to face Andrés.

Andrés raises an eyebrow. “Well your manners haven’t improved since –”

“Since what?” Martín challenges. “Since you kicked me out to go print money with your brother? No, they haven’t.”

“You’re angry,” Andrés says and Martín almost lunges at him, only just managing to hold himself back.

He feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin as he sneers at Andrés. “Am I? What gave you that impression?”

Andrés sighs. “If you’re going to be unreasonable then I don’t think there’s much point in talking,” he says, getting to his feet and dusting himself off.

“No, I don’t think there is,” Martín says.

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow then,” Andrés says, walking past Martín who watches him leave, hands curled into fists.

When Andrés has gone, Martín smokes two more cigarettes in quick succession and then goes to find Helsinki. He’s in the room the gang has turned into a common area and Martín ignores how Nairobi narrows her eyes at him when he enters.

Helsinki is playing cards with Denver, but smiles when he sees Martín.

“Hey, Palermo,” he says, looking over his cards.

“Are you busy?” Martín asks, aware that he must look slightly deranged, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands shaking.

Helsinki looks at Denver who shrugs. “I’m losing anyway,” he says with that grating laugh of his and for once it doesn’t make Martín want to throttle him.

Helsinki gets to his feet, and walks towards Martín, patting Nairobi on the knee as he passes.

“What’s up?” he asks, following Martín out into the hallway.

Once they’ve rounded the corner, Martín pounces, pressing Helsinki against the wall and stretching up to mouth at his neck. It’s messy, and sort of aggressive, but Helsinki is responsive as always, pulling Martín close, arms wrapping around his waist.

“Are you okay?” he asks and Martín presses closer, mouth at his jaw.

“Of course.”

Helsinki frowns, aborting Martín’s attempt to slide his hands down the back of his trousers with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“Too much coffee earlier, too much nicotine just now,” Martín says, grinding his hips against Helsinki’s making the other man groan. “Now are we going to stand here chatting like girls or do you not want this anymore?”

“No, I want this,” Helsinki assures him and Martín tries not to let himself feel too much satisfaction at the words – Helsinki wants sex, not Martín specifically.

“Good, then let’s move before one of the monks catch us,” Martín says and Helsinki laughs.

“Okay, let’s go.”

* * *

Martín shouldn’t be eavesdropping, no one ever hears anything good about themselves by listening at doors. But he probably also shouldn’t be drunk and roaming the halls of the monastery at 2am and he’s doing that so why stop there?

Besides, it’s not like anyone in the classroom is making an effort to keep their voices down. Probably feeling secure in the knowledge that everyone else is asleep. And they’re talking about him. He probably would have walked straight past if he hadn’t heard his name being mentioned – well, his new name that is.

“Palermo is essential to the plan,” Sergio says and Martín nods to himself. He is essential, it’s his fucking plan after all. “We only have a week left, I’m not changing things now.”

“I don’t care,” Nairobi is saying. “He’s a liability, he’s all over the place.”

“He’s not a liability, he cares about the plan too much to want to mess it up,” Sergio protests and Martín almost laughs at the irony of Sergio trying to convince other people that he believes Martín is essential.

“You think that man cares about anything but himself? All he does at the moment is ramble about numbers looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, then he goes and gets drunk and fucks Helsinki!”

That, Martín decides, is what’s really bothering Nairobi. The silly woman is obviously in love and convinced she can straighten Helsinki out. It’s pathetic, but then… Martín is self-aware enough to see himself mirrored in her and almost feels sympathy towards her situation.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sergio insists. “It doesn’t matter. Berlin will be in charge with Palermo and I know he’ll be able to manage him.”

“Manage Palermo? That doesn’t sound like you trust him, Professor.”

“I don’t need to. But I trust my brother to keep Palermo under control, to curb any impulses that may hurt the gang or the plan.”

Martín staggers away from the door. He feels like his chest is constricting and how is there no air in a monastery as draughty as this one? He knows Nairobi doesn’t like or trust him, but when Sergio came knocking at his door, Martín saw it as a form of unspoken apology, a sign of his trust in Martín. And that he wants Andrés to be the one to manage him? Andrés? When Sergio undoubtedly knows what Andrés did to him, how Martín felt?

He and Sergio aren’t close anymore, but they had been once. Martín had to come to terms with losing both Sergio and Andrés and then accepted them back into his life. Now, he’s finding out it’s only because Sergio needs him and is willing to use any means possible to get Martín do what he wants. It’s a betrayal he hates himself for not expecting.

There are tears blurring his eyes and this is exactly why he holed himself up in his apartment for most of the last five years. Because he expects too much of people and he’s let down every time.

He wipes his eyes, stumbling down the hallway towards his room and runs straight into someone, landing on his ass on the floor. Because whatever deity there is hates him, that someone proves to be Andrés, wrapped in one of his ridiculously ostentatious silk dressing gowns.

“Ugh,” Martín says, pushing himself to his feet, batting away Andrés’ hands when he tries to help.

“You’re up late,” Andrés comments casually.

Martín sniffs. “So are you. On your way back from the bathroom, I assume?” Andrés doesn’t answer, but Martín knows by the twitch of his lip that he was right. “Good talk, see you tomorrow.”

He makes to push past him, but finds Andrés blocking his path with an arm.

“What’s wrong with you?” Andrés asks.

Martín snarls. “Nothing, although I’m sure you have a list somewhere, now let me through.”

“No. I know you, Martín, we’re friends. You’re upset, tell me why.”

“You knew me,” Martín corrects. “We haven’t seen each other in a long time, Andrés – and even you can’t seriously believe we’re still friends.”

The corners of Andrés’ mouth pull down as he frowns. “I had hoped. I thought perhaps time would have mended what was broken.”

“What you broke. Everything was fine.”

Andrés actually laughs and Martín wants to punch him. “Fine? Martín, you were in love with me – so much so that even Sergio could see it. It would have driven us apart eventually.”

“Would it? Because everything was fine the way it was. You were the one who changed things! I seem to remember you saying that you loved me too – or was that just something you said to really twist the knife?” Martín asks, aggressively wiping away the tears he can feel creeping down his face.

“You’re drunk,” Andrés says, his face stony. “I don’t want to talk about this when you’re drunk.”

Martín scoffs. “You never want to talk about this – or to me. Just admit that you lied because you knew it would hurt more and go. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

Before he can really understand what’s going on, Martín finds himself shoved against a wall, Andrés so close he can smell his toothpaste.

“Don’t speak to me about things you don’t understand, Martín. You have your recollection of that night and I have mine, I’ll thank you not to confuse the two,” he hisses, his fists balled in Martín’s shirt.

“Get off me you bastard,” Martín protests, futilely trying to break Andrés’ grip. “You can tell yourself that you’re the hero of this story as much as you want, but the truth is you left me and you hurt me on purpose, just because you could and I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate you, Andrés de Fonollosa.”

Andrés stares at him, his eyes dark, unknowable in a way they never used to be and then he’s leaning forward, pressing a kiss to Martín’s lips. Martín hates his body for responding, letting his hands fall from Andrés’ wrists, to wrap around his waist.

It lasts aeons and ends in seconds and then Andrés is stepping away from Martín, his face flushed.

“Andrés, I…” Martín says, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“I have a wife,” is what Andrés replies, smoothing out his robe, and Martín’s heart – shoddily patched up thing that it is – splinters.

His shaking hands come up to scrub at his face. “You… a wife? You’re still with Tatiana?”

“No,” Andrés says. “Her name is Abi. I met her –”

“Shut up,” Martín interrupts him. “I don’t want to hear it, shut the fuck up.”

Andrés frowns. “Martín,” he begins, but is cut off again.”

“No don’t bother. I don’t care. Just… you’re still a fucking coward. All your talk of romantic heroes and soulmates and you’re still a coward, I –” Martín cuts himself off, his breath coming in short, far too quick bursts. “I can’t do this.”

He pushes Andrés away, probably too hard, but he can’t bring himself to care and almost runs down the hallway, putting as much distance between them as he can.

He’s almost at his room, when for the second time that night, he runs into someone. Thankfully this time, he doesn’t fall over. Instead, hands immediately reach out to grab him, stopping him from toppling over at the last second.

“Hey, I was just coming to see if you know where Nairobi is,” Helsinki says, frowning when Martín shrugs out of his grip.

“She’s with the Professor talking about how much they hate me, feel free to go join them,” Martín spits, storming into his room.

Helsinki follows, because of course he does, switching on a lamp and shutting the door behind them. “Palermo, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Martín says. “Absolutely fucking nothing.”

He grabs his bag from where it’s lying in the corner of the room and starts haphazardly stuffing things into it, balling up t-shirts and crumpling his notes as he roughly shoves them into the bag.

“Wait, are you leaving?” Helsinki asks and Martín lets out a harsh laugh.

“Bit slow on the uptake aren’t you, big guy? Yes, I’m fucking leaving. I should never have come in the first place.”

He throws himself on the floor to pull his shoes out from under the bed and when he crawls back out, Helsinki is on the floor next to him.

“What are you doing?” Martín asks warily as Helsinki shuffles closer and then wraps his arms around him. “What’s going on?” he says, his voice muffled by Helsinki’s shoulder.

There’s a hand rubbing his back and Martín shudders against the warmth of the other man’s body.

“It’s okay, Palermo,” Helsinki says quietly. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but it’ll be okay.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Martín bites out, his chest tight as Helsinki continues to hold him. “Everything is falling apart.”

“You aren’t thinking clearly right now. Things are never as bad as you make them out to be, Palermo,” Helsinki insists.

Martín struggles out of his grasp. “You’re wrong. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Helsinki doesn’t look angry, but Martín sort of wishes he was – he knows how to handle anger. “I know we need you for the plan.”

Martín shakes his head, jaw clenched as he thinks about Sergio and Nairobi. “No you don’t. Everyone thinks I’m a liability in my own plan and besides… I’m not going in that bank just to be puppeteered by Berlin and the Professor.”

“Puppeteered?”

“Manipulated. When your dear Nairobi was telling the Professor about how she thinks I’m some drunken psychopath, his assurance was that Berlin would control me,” Martín growls. “So I’m leaving. Tell the Professor from me that he can go fuck himself, okay?”

He gets to his feet and shoulders his bag. “It was nice knowing you, Helsinki. But the time has come to say ‘ciao’.”

“No,” Helsinki says, blocking the door and Martín is really getting tired of people stopping him from moving.

“No?”

Helsinki crosses his arms. “No. We need you for the plan. We need you to save Rio.”

“I don’t care,” Martín insists. “I won’t let them do this to me again.”

“Again?” Helsinki asks and Martín bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. “What do you mean, Palermo?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Martín shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter because it won’t happen again – not in my own fucking plan – so let me go, Helsinki.”

Helsinki looks sad when he speaks. Not like he pities Martín, but like he’s sad for him. “No, we all need you. Even if they do want to manipulate you, how does leaving help you? You leave and they have your plan and what do you have? Stay and show them that it’s your plan and you won’t be controlled by them.”

Martín nods slowly. To his liquor soaked brain, what Helsinki’s saying makes a degree of sense. All the years he didn’t have Andrés, he always thought he’d at least be able to do his plan one day. He won’t let Sergio and Andrés take it from him. “You’re right. It’s my plan. I should stay for it.”

“For the plan,” Helsinki repeats.

Martín puts down his bag, slowly walking over to his bed. He sits on the edge and glances at Helsinki who is still leaning against the door. “Nairobi and the Professor are probably still in the classroom if you want to go find her,” Martín says, looking down at his hands.

“If she’s with the Professor it’s fine,” Helsinki says.

Martín nods. “It’s late though, you should go.”

“I should,” Helsinki agrees. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Palermo.”

He leaves, throwing a look at Martín’s half-packed bag, and shuts the door carefully behind himself.

Martín kicks off his shoes and curls up on his bed, arms wrapped around himself as if that will stop him from falling apart when he thinks about Andrés and his new wife. About Sergio and Andrés sitting together, plotting how best to manipulate him. About Andrés’ lips against his own, his hands on Martín’s chest.

* * *

Helsinki is too gentle, too careful with Martín. He holds him like he’s something breakable and the more Martín pushes him to get rough, the less willing he is to do so. Martín likes to think Helsinki’s unwillingness to treat him the way he wants during sex is why he kicks him out the night before the heist.

Really it’s because if he stays, if Martín lets him hold him any more than the awkward hug Helsinki foists on him… well, he doesn’t want to become accustomed to the intimacy that will be out of place in the bank and certainly won’t continue when they go their separate ways afterwards.

He knows himself, he could get let himself enjoy it, come to expect it the way he’d expected it from Andrés. Nothing good can come from expecting other people to care for you. He only has himself now and he’s already allowed himself to become too attached, too willing to want to let Helsinki in.

The Serb isn’t stupid, he’ll have seen the scars, he knows that Martín has a messy history with Andrés, but he doesn’t need to know the whole pathetic affair. No, that’s for Martín alone to struggle with and Andrés with his new wife and perfect life to hold over him for the rest of their lives.


	2. Chapter 2

The pain is searing. It’s dark red and needle sharp and he’s shoved into a seat somewhere and they shine lights in his eyes and he can’t see shit. It’s all a blurry red with a few bright spots and Tokyo and Stockholm arguing above his head.

“Enough,” a voice orders, cutting through the women’s squabbling. “We can’t get an ophthalmologist in here. Tokyo, do you think your hand is steady?”

“Yes,” Martín hears her respond. “I wouldn’t risk it otherwise.”

“Okay. Stockholm, give him some morphine and then you can get to work Tokyo.”

Martín protests, but no one listens.

It’s hell. The morphine helps with the pain, but the feeling of the glass being removed from his eyes is still there. The light is blinding and the sensation of foreign objects being pulled from his cornea makes him nauseated in a way he he’s never experienced before. He squirms in his chair and he’s aware of someone holding him down, tears flowing freely from his irritated eyes.

They wind bandages over his eyes when they’re finished and he sighs in relief at being able to close them, to hide from the light that blinds him, but simultaneously is almost impossible to see.

Once his eyes are done Tokyo moves on to the rest of his face and it’s a pinprick in comparison. It’s nothing.

“Let’s go down to the vault. We need to get Flipper,” he says, turning towards where he thinks Andrés is.

“No,” Andrés says immediately. “You should stay here. You’ll be of no use to us down there.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can’t make me stay here!”

There’s the sound of shuffling feet and Martín imagines it’s Stockholm showing her nerves.

“I can and I will,” Andrés says. “Stay here and try to heal.”

It’s so similar to what he said before and Martín’s head spins as someone forces him back into his seat and then he hears retreating footsteps.

There’s more shuffling beside him. “I have to go, but I’ll send someone to sit with you,” Stockholm says, her voice sympathetic. She leaves before Martín can tell her that he doesn’t need anyone to sit with him because he isn’t an invalid.

He kicks out in rage, foot connecting with some sort of table and he staggers to his feet. He doesn’t want to risk further damage by taking off the bandages too early, but it can’t be that hard to feel his way across the room and down the hallway to the lift.

He can’t let Andrés dispose of him again, not this soon into the heist, not this easily. This is still his plan and getting to the red cases is the most important part.

He carefully moves forward, feet shuffling instead of taking normal steps, arms stretched out at waist level to try and feel out any obstacles.

He doesn’t even make it to the wall before something trips him and he’s simultaneously hit by a wave of vertigo, which all culminates in him landing flat on his face. He swears in every language he knows, trying to push himself up.

Then there are hands on him, dragging him up and he automatically lashes out, lack of his sight making him panic.

“Hey, Palermo, it’s okay. It’s me,” a voice says, the hands letting go of him once he’s upright.

He stops thrashing, heart still pounding. “Helsinki?” he asks.

“Yes,” Helsinki replies. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Of course I’m not fucking okay,” Martín snaps. “I just had Tokyo pulling shards of glass out of my fucking eyes with the same fucking tweezers she probably plucks her pussy with.”

“Calm down,” Helsinki says, voice steady, his hands coming to settle on Martín’s shoulders again. “Why were you on the floor? Where were you trying to go?”

Martín can feel Helsinki guiding him somewhere, but he doesn’t think it’s towards the lift. “I wanted to go to the vault. This is the most important part. The part I came up with! And Berlin just shut me down and made me stay here. I need to be there, Helsinki!”

He hears Helsinki making soothing noises next to him as he’s pushed – once again – into a chair. “You should take the time to rest, Palermo. You’re injured.”

“I don’t want to fucking rest, I want to go downstairs and make sure the governor is doing what’s needed to stop the fucking army from storming in here and killing us all!” Martín yells.

There’s a hand on his knee and one on his face, carefully avoiding the worst of his cuts.

“Okay, calm down,” Helsinki tells him. “It’s okay, I’ll take you.”

Martín nods sharply and Helsinki pats his knee.

“Alright, here’s my arm,” Helsinki says, guiding Martín’s right hand to his forearm.

Martín pulls himself up and then links his arm with Helsinki’s. It’s slow going. He doesn’t want to fall again and Helsinki isn’t moving at his usual pace either.

“How’s the pain?” Helsinki asks when they’re in the lift and Martín feels his stomach drop as it starts to move.

Martín shrugs. “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”

He can’t see him, but he gets the feeling that Helsinki wants to argue with him. Except then the lift is jolting to a stop and he can hear voices yelling.

“What’s happening?” he asks as Helsinki leads him forward.

“The governor is on the floor, Nairobi is injecting him with something.”

“Hey,” Martín yells at the others who are shouting over each other. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“The governor refused to go in,” Denver says, but he’s quickly interrupted by Nairobi.

“So Denver hit him and he bashed his head and went into cardiac arrest!”

“He’ll be fine. Nairobi give him another one,” Andrés says, voice cutting through the noise. “Bogota is going in with C4, we’ll get the cases and it’ll all be fine.”

“Fine? I told you, you should have let me come down here from the start!” Martín says.

“And what use would you have been?” Andrés asks coldly. “Helsinki, go upstairs. Make sure the hostages are in position and then take your station. The Browning is already prepared, yes?”

“Yes,” Helsinki confirms. “What about Palermo?”

“He can stay here,” Andrés says. “Now go. He doesn’t need you to babysit him.”

Martín feels a gentle squeeze on the back of his neck and then boots stomping away from him. In front of him, he hears what must be Bogota climbing into the tube, Matias urging him to hurry.

Moments later, the ground shakes with the force of the explosion inside the vault and someone wraps an arm around him. He thinks it’s Andrés based on the brief contact, but then the person is moving away again.

He hears the strange sound of air pressure changing and then Bogota’s voice.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got the cases,” he says and Martín breathes a sigh of relief.

“Give them to me,” Andrés orders. “Denver, with me. Let’s go, we’re nearly out of time.”

“What about me?” Martín asks as they walk past him.

“Stay with Nairobi and the governor. I’ll send someone to get you when we have time,” Andrés says and then there’s the sound of the lift doors closing.

“Motherfucker,” Martín swears. His hands are shaking from the adrenaline and down here he can’t hear anything that’s going on upstairs.

* * *

Someone comes and gets him eventually. It’s Helsinki, because of course it is.

“How did it go?” Martín asks, the minute the lift doors close. He’d felt entirely useless and almost detrimental to the cause, as around him everyone worked to set up the forge and smelting stations.

Helsinki is quiet for a moment before answering. “Gandia wouldn’t take the cases outside.”

“Of course he fucking didn’t,” Martín groans. “I told the Professor we need to kill him immediately.”

“That’s what Berlin is currently telling him on the radio,” Helsinki says, sounding vaguely amused.

“So what happened instead?” Martín asks as they start to walk again, Helsinki keeping him steady.

“Denver went out, waving a white flag. Berlin isn’t happy about it.”

“I bet he isn’t,” Martín mutters.

“Berlin?” Helsinki suddenly says and they stop walking. Martín can hear the crackle of the radio and Andrés furiously arguing with Sergio. “I have Palermo here.”

Andrés stops talking to Sergio, his footsteps echoing sharply as he walks towards them. “I’ll take him from here, thank you Helsinki.”

Then Helsinki’s arm is sliding from Martín’s grasp, only to be replaced by another, slimmer one.

“Come on, let’s go sit down,” Andrés tells him, his voice so close it sends goose bumps racing over Martín’s skin.

“So Gandia’s still in the bank?” Martín asks once Andrés has helped him to a couch.

“Yes,” Andrés says curtly.

“Sergio still won’t agree to kill him?”

Andrés sighs. “No. Sadly, my hermanito is still labouring under the illusion that we can get through this all with minimal violence.”

“Always so smart in all the wrong ways,” Martín says.

“You know maybe we can convince him together,” Andrés says.

“Why? It never worked before.”

Andrés scoffs. “The last time we tried to convince him together was five years ago.”

“I’m sure you’ve tried since then,” Martín says with a shrug. He wishes he could see Andrés’ face, his body language. It’s so much harder to work through his half-truths when all he has to go on is his voice.

“Not with you,” Andrés implores.

“What do you want?” Martín responds sharply. “We’ve spent nearly three months under the same roof and you haven’t once spoken to me properly.”

“That isn’t true,” Andrés protests. “I’ve tried.”

“Really? When? When you decided I was too angry to talk to, or when you kissed me only to tell me you have a wife?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I do have a wife.”

“Good for you.”

“I also have a son.”

Martín’s stomach twists painfully and his hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. “Congratulations. You’ve got the perfect little family.”

“Not perfect,” Andrés says quietly, his hand covering Martín’s. “I don’t have you.”

Martín pulls his hand away from Andrés’ enticing warmth. “You don’t want me,” he chokes out around the lump that’s lodged itself in his throat.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I want you.”

Martín feels as if the air has been punched out of his chest. “No you don’t,” he says and it’s both to himself and to Andrés. “Not the way I wanted you then or want you now.”

“How did you want me?”

“Selfishly. With everything I had, I wanted everything you were. And I would have been content to keep things the way they were but you… you and Sergio wouldn’t let me.”

He sniffs, the bandage damp against his eyes.

“You think that’s not how I wanted you?” Andrés asks, his voice quiet, uncertain.

“You left.” Martín says flatly. “You left and you chose the mint and your brother over me.”

“I didn’t want to. I was dying –” Andrés begins but Martín cuts him off with a sharp laugh.

“You think I didn’t know that, Andrés? We spent every day together, I knew you were sick. But look at you now, apparently still alive and kicking.”

“I found a treatment. It’s impressive what millions of euros can get you.”

“I’m glad for you,” Martín says. “Really I am, because I would never want you dead. But you still left. And more importantly, you never came back.”

There’s a hand on his knee, a thumb rubbing circles into his skin through the fabric of his jumpsuit. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what you want,” Martín says miserably. “You left me for five years, you ignored me in the monastery. I don’t understand why you’re suddenly doing this now.”

Andrés’ hand squeezes his leg. “Gandia shot at you Martín. I watched Tokyo pull shards of glass out of your face. I care about you and I’ve come too close to losing you.”

Martín’s brain kicks into overdrive, trying to understand what Andrés is saying, if what he thinks he means is true.

“What about after?”

“After what?” Andrés questions.

“After, all this,” Martín says gesturing broadly. “What happens?”

“Come back with me,” Andrés says immediately.

Martín snorts. “Don’t you still have a wife?”

“Well, yes.”

“And are you planning on divorcing her any time soon?” Martín asks. The answering silence is response enough. “Exactly. You want me in your life, but not all the way. You love me, but not enough. We’re soulmates, but only ninety-nine percent. It’s all or nothing, Andrés. It didn’t used to be, but you and Sergio made it that way when you decided me loving you was dangerous.”

“I love you,” Andrés says and Martín swallows a sob. “You… you’re my closest friend Martín. What we shared, it was magnificent.”

“All that and you still don’t put me first.”

“I miss you, Martín.”

Martín sets his jaw. “You should go and check on the hostages. Make sure Denver isn’t doing anything stupid.”

Andrés doesn’t reply, but Martín feels the sofa shift as he gets to his feet. There’s the soft feeling of fingers stroking his face and then Andrés is gone, footsteps echoing down the hall.

Martín finally gives in to the tears he was holding back, carefully pressing his hands to the bandage over his stinging eyes, wishing he were anywhere but here.

* * *

It’s hours before he sees anyone again – well, figuratively speaking that is. Denver and Tokyo arrive with their usual volume to take a break and bring Helsinki with them.

“Palermo,” Tokyo announces. “We’re going to try and take the bandages off, okay?”

Martín nods and then there’s someone close to him, moving around in front of him.

“Palermo, how have you been?” Helsinki asks, voice close, warm hands on both of Martín’s knees.

Martín shrugs. “Fine. Let’s take these bandages off.”

“Okay,” Helsinki agrees.

Martín feels hands on his head, and then the bandage is slowly being unwound. He blinks in the light, his eyes struggling to focus on Helsinki’s face in front of him. Helsinki gently covers his left eye with one hand.

“Palermo, can you see anything with that eye?” he asks.

“I see your Russian Orthodox beard, you damn Serbian,” Martín replies cockily, even though it’s only a blurry outline of Helsinki’s face that he can actually see. “Or is it Jeremiah Johnson’s? What I don’t see is the damn mule. Where did you leave it? I can see fine, big guy.”

Helsinki laughs. “Okay, let’s see the other eye.”

He covers Martín’s right eye and his vision almost immediately goes dark. He can faintly see something moving around, but he can’t work out what it is. His heart races as he starts to panic – what good is he, if he still can’t see?

“Don’t worry, your eye just needs to heal,” Helsinki assures him. “It will be better tomorrow.”

His endless optimism astounds Martín. The man’s no eye doctor, how could he possibly know whether Martín’s vision will be any better? Nevertheless, he lets Helsinki position a cut up mask on his face like an eyepatch.

“I’m going to find you a cane,” Helsinki promises, his hand gentle as it pats Martín’s chest and there’s a small, embarrassingly pathetic part of him that wants to ask for a hug. That wants Helsinki to hold him, for someone to lend him some comfort just for a moment.

But Helsinki leaves and when he returns, Martín’s pulled himself together enough to answer the radio when Sergio calls. He doesn’t know where Andrés is, but Martín is a leader too, and this is still his plan no matter how fucked up his eyesight is.

“Rio’s in Spain,” Sergio says and Martín feels a strange sense of elation for this man he’s never met. Tokyo looks happier than he’s ever seen her and when she hugs Denver, Martín allows Helsinki to pull him into a hug as well.

It’s short, but he enjoys the sensation of being in Helsinki’s arms, before they break apart again.

* * *

Beating the shit out of Gandia feels good. That motherfucker would have had it coming, even if he hadn’t spoken about Martín and Nairobi the way he did. Martín just enjoys letting out some of the rage he’s feeling towards himself, towards Andrés – and even Sergio. He doesn’t even land that many hits, but he’s soon being dragged away by Denver and forced into the library with Nairobi yelling at him, Helsinki behind her as always.

“You’ve brought us down to the same fucking level as the Taliban. What were you trying to prove?” she asks. “That you’re in control?” She’s smart, too smart for her own good. Because she’s already managed to exactly pinpoint the reason for his actions.

“Beating a guy who’s tied up? All that proves is you’re a piece of shit,” Nairobi spits as if he didn’t already know that.

“Then untie him, and I’ll beat that bastard with just one hand! Bring him in here,” Martín counters. He’s in charge of this heist, however much Sergio and Andrés want to control him and he won’t let Nairobi tell him what to do.

“This fucking psycho is who the Professor put in charge?” Denver asks the others and Martín wants to throttle him.

“No. Listen to me, Palermo. We have a plan and we have rules. The Professor’s rules. And we have to obey them,” Nairobi insists.

Her blind faith in Sergio sickens him. “Where the hell is the Professor, Nairobi? Where is Mr. Professor? He’s never here. Raise your hand if you have the sceptre of command!” He gets to his feet, brandishing the cane Helsinki brought him. “I have the sceptre of command! I am in charge! Not the Professor, not Berlin, not any of you! This is my fucking plan!”

Denver, Nairobi, and Helsinki are all looking at him like he’s gone crazy. Maybe he has. His head has been spinning since his conversation with Andrés, he hasn’t felt right since he came to the monastery – maybe even since before that.

“I’m going to explain something to you about the rules,” he says, pointing his cane at them. “Any son of a bitch, who dares to insult any member of the team, I will break his skull. And you can keep your mouth shut, unless you’d like to thank me for defending you.”

“I don’t need a piece of shit like you to defend me,” Nairobi counters. “And don’t pretend you were doing this for me. This was all about you, because you’re a selfish, psychopathic egomaniac. If I wanted, I could knock you out and take charge. Right now, I’m pretty tempted.”

And there it is, Nairobi reveals herself to be yet another person trying to take his leadership position, to take his plan away from him. It’s all he has left and he cannot, will not let her.

“Helsinki, tie her up!” he orders, desperate for just one person to respect his authority. “Bind her hand and foot and take her to the forge for mutiny. Right now.”

“Don’t even think about it, Helsi!” Nairobi implores.

Helsinki looks unsure, but shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Palermo,” he says and that’s when Martín realises he’s alone.

Like a cornered animal, he lashes out.

“Helsi? Oh Helsi,” he taunts. “Sorry, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve brought your emotional baggage into this. Am I right?”

Nairobi looks nervous and Martín decides to go for the throat. To keep her away, to punish Helsinki for not siding with him, to make them all regret underestimating him. “Do you really think you can be Helsinki’s wife? What, Nairobi? Pursuing an impossible love? Why?” he asks and a part of him hopes she has an answer. An explanation that he can apply to himself and make him understand why he still wants Andrés even though just hours ago it was made clear to him that Andrés doesn’t love him the way he needs him to.

“Are you fooling yourself? Or do you want to play mommy?” he questions and she turns her back, walking away from him. “I regret to inform you the only role you can take on now, is that of the faggot’s friend,” he calls after her as he sees Andrés slip in through the doorway.

“You’re the fucking fag hag. I’m sorry, Helsinki loves me,” he proclaims even though he knows it isn’t true. “Let me tell you a few things you should know, because you’re old enough now. In romantic relationships, there is the lover and the beloved. The lover lives with passion, pure devotion, and romanticism. The beloved is limited to being worshipped,” he says and he’s not even talking to her anymore, staring over her shoulder, right at Andrés.

“I’m not saying being a lover is bad, don’t get me wrong. But you know what? The lover suffers a lot, dear,” he says, the words tumbling from his mouth as he thinks of Andrés and how much he let Martín suffer, for how long.

“Whereas I have my fun. The only thing I get from our relationship is sex,” he says hollowly. It’s all he’s good for really. “It’s the fucking law of love. I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.”

Nairobi turns, her dark eyes full of tears. “The only miserable one in this whole story is you. With your speeches about love and ‘boom boom ciao’. That’s because you’re too much of a coward to admit the truth,” she says.

If Martín believed in that sort of thing he’d accuse her of being a witch, or a mind reader. Instead he plasters a fake smile to his face. “The only truth is reality,” he says. He doesn’t even believe it himself, he just wants her to stop laying his deepest shame out for everyone to hear. Andrés is still watching, silently like some sort of ghost and Martín wonders if this will finally be enough to show just how much Andrés hurt him, how much he could have loved him, how much he wanted to be loved by him.

“I’m going to explain it to you,” he tells her. “Look, you love the big guy. The big guy thinks he loves me. And I…” he trails off looking at Andrés, wishing for the courage he’d felt that night, when he’d kissed Andrés and just for a moment he’d believed that he’d get to keep him. He swallows hard. “I don’t love anymore. That’s exactly why you hate me,” he finishes.

“You don’t love anymore? Of course you don’t, honey. You don’t have the balls to. You need courage to love. I have courage. Look. Helsi, I love you. I love you so much that I would have a family with you,” she tells Helsinki. “See? This is bravery. I feel it, and I say it. And you don’t know how to do that.”

“Nothing good ever comes from it,” he replies, trying to keep his smile on his face, but it feels like a mask that has cracked in two and won’t let itself be mended. “All you’ve done is left yourself open to rejection.”

“Rejection? Is that something you know a lot about, Palermo? We aren’t stupid, you know. We put some things together – with the help of Bogota and the Professor of course. We know why you weren’t involved in the first heist. It’s because of Berlin, right? How long have you been in love with him?” Nairobi asks and Martín shakes his head, clenching his jaw but she just keeps fucking talking. “Ten years? You were in love with him for ten years and you never dared to tell him. You worshipped him, followed him around like a puppy. But he left you anyway. And now what? It’s all out in the open and you’re still alone and bitter and miserable.”

“Shut up,” Martín spits. “You don’t know anything, Nairobi!” He looks over at Andrés who is staring at them and he silently implores him to say something – anything – to help him, to say that he loves Martín still, that the possibility of them wasn’t something Martín had made up in his head.

But Andrés says nothing and Nairobi, who had turned to look at him as well just nods, as if confirming something to herself. “Let’s go back to work,” she says and leaves for real this time, Denver hurrying after her, his eyes cast to the ground to avoid looking at Martín.

“Palermo,” he hears Andrés say and he rounds on him.

“What could you possibly have to say to me?” Martín demands. “After you just stood there and let her say all those things.”

“What did you want me to do? Fall to my knees and profess my love for you? I told you earlier I love you. And I didn’t do it in some speech where I talked about lovers and their beloved,” Andrés accuses, his body drawn taught with tension.

Martín sags. “No. I just… I just wanted you to choose me over your appearance, over your reputation in the gang. But you’re still just happy being the beloved: worshipped and idolised.”

“That isn’t true,” Andrés denies.

“It is. You think you love me and maybe you do – we were friends like you said. But you’re not in love with me. You’re in love with being loved. And I can’t do it anymore.”

Andrés takes a step towards him, his hands clenched on the strap of his gun. “So what? You’re choosing Helsinki over me?”

Martín shakes his head. “Would you blame me? For wanting someone who loves me?”

“Does he though? All these proclamations of yours about being loved, but we haven’t actually heard from the man himself,” Andrés says, his eyes flashing darkly. “Do you love him, Helsinki? Do you want him to choose you?”

Martín turns to Helsinki who looks torn, upset. “It’s okay,” Martín tells him. “I know it’s not love – an infatuation maybe. He’s just trying to drag you into the mess he made.”

Helsinki shakes his head. “Nairobi’s right. You have to brave to be in love and… I want to be brave. I love you Palermo and I want to be with you. But I won’t make you choose. If you love Berlin and he loves you, you should be with him.”

Martín feels tears running down his cheek at Helsinki’s words. Never in his life has anyone wanted him the way Helsinki claims to. Selflessly, without expectations, and Martín can’t think. He doesn’t want to think about Andrés, telling him he loves him which is all he’s ever wanted. Because it still isn’t enough. Because Martín is greedy and vain and he wants all of him, wants to come first – always – and Andrés will never give him that.

“Tell me right now, Andrés. Tell me now that you don’t care that I’m a man, tell me that you’d give up everything you have to be with me. Tell me you care about me more than Sergio, more than your wife. Tell me that you love me and want me and need me. Tell me if you had the chance you’d change everything that happened that night. That you’d stay.” Martín asks and he can’t believe it’s come to this, begging Andrés to put him first.

And he can see in Andrés’ eyes that he can’t do it – or won’t. It doesn’t matter either way. Because Andrés looks heartbroken and regretful, but he still isn’t willing to do it.

“I wouldn’t change things,” he admits. “I had to do it, Martín. I thought I was dying and I had to help my brother and I didn’t want to drag you down with me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, or that I’m not sorry for what I had to do.”

“I love you too,” Martín tells him through his tears. “But I don’t think I can forgive you for leaving, for the way you hurt me. I can’t forgive you for not coming back. For not loving me the way I need you to.”

Andrés stares at him and Martín hysterically wonders whether this is the first time he’s ever been rejected.

“I’m going to check on things in the forge,” Andrés says eventually, his tone flat, turning on his heel and leaving, his body a blurry red outline which retreats, leaving Martín alone.

Except he isn’t alone, because when he collapses onto the sofa, sobs wracking his entire body, Helsinki is there, soothing hands on his shoulders.

“It’s okay, calm down,” Helsinki tells him. “You’ll be alright. You’re okay.”

Martín nods and then continues to cry. His whole body feels like it’s rejecting him, his chest tight and his heart pounding, his vision swimming while his stomach roils with nausea.

“Palermo, you need to calm down,” Helsinki insists. “You’re going to make yourself sick. Breathe, Palermo, breathe for me.”

Martín tries, his breath hitching and his lungs refusing to expand.

“Come on, it’s okay. Breathe in and out. Breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for for. That’s it. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Very good.” Helsinki keeps up a constant stream of narration, counting until Martín’s breathing semi-normally.

“Thank you,” he gasps and Helsinki shrugs. “No, really, thank you. For this and what you said earlier. You didn’t have to.”

Helsinki frowns. “I meant it. You know that, right? I meant it when I said I love you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Martín says. “I’m a pathetic mess of a person. Nairobi was right. I’m bitter and empty.”

Helsinki shakes his head. “Well, we don’t get to decide who other people love.”

Martín almost smiles at that. “No, we don’t.”

“Are you alright?” Helsinki asks, sounding like he actually means it and Martín will never understand how a person can be so kind.

Martín nods and then hesitates. “No,” he admits. “No. He’s never going to forgive me for this.”

“You could still take it back,” Helsinki says as if he hasn’t just told Martín he loves him, that he wants to be with him.

“I don’t think I want to,” Martín confesses, voice barely more than a whisper.

One of Helsinki’s huge hands comes up to cup the side of his face, carefully avoiding the cuts littering his skin. “What do you want?”

Martín hangs his head, pushing into the touch. “I just want it to be better than it is now. Apart from that, I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“That’s okay. You’ll figure it out,” Helsinki assures him, pulling him into a hug and something warm and hopeful spreads through Martín’s chest.


	3. Chapter 3

It goes to hell faster than even Martín could have expected.

“No, I don’t care whose fucking bear it is. You’re not going to use that phone!” Martín insists, grabbing it from Nairobi’s hand.

“Palermo just let her have the fucking phone,” Denver says.

Martín shakes his head, ignoring Nairobi’s gun pointed right at him. “No. This is my fucking heist, communication should go through me.”

He tries not to scowl as Denver looks at Andrés, as if expecting him to overrule Martín.

“He’s right,” Andrés says eventually. “They’re targeting you specifically, Nairobi. You should let someone else speak to them.”

She finally lowers her gun, eyes still teary and nods. When Martín steps away from the group, she follows, but he doesn’t say anything to rebuff her.

Martín dials the number programmed into the phone. “Who am I speaking to?” he demands the minute it picks up.

“Inspector Sierra,” the voice on the other end tells him. “And you are not the mother of the child whom I have outside.”

“No. My name is Palermo and I’m in charge of this heist,” he tells the inspector.

“How lovely,” she purrs. “Well, if you’d be so kind as to tell your colleague that her son is waiting for her anytime she wants to see him, he's right outside.”

She hangs up before he can say anymore. One look at Nairobi tells him she heard what Inspector Sierra said, she was practically on top of Martín as he made the call.

“No,” he warns, but she’s already running. Away from him and towards the doors.

He lunges at her, but his eyesight fucks him over again and he misses, hand swinging wildly through the air.

“Nairobi!” he hears Stockholm yell as he chases after her, but she’s already hit the button to open the doors.

Martín reaches her just as the doors start to open and he grabs her, pulling her back.

“My son!” she says, and he pushes her away from the opening doors.

“It’s a trap, you fucking idiot. Helsinki come and get your woman. Denver close the doors again!” he yells.

Helsinki does as he’s told, grabbing Nairobi around the waist and bodily lifting her up. Denver hits button again and the doors begin to shut. Martín looks outside and sees a mass of red and some hazy black shapes. He doesn’t see the bullet that hits his chest, or the one that buries itself in his shoulder, or the final one which hits his knee just as the doors close.

His ears are ringing as he collapses onto the ground, legs giving way beneath him.

He hears people yelling his name and Andrés’ face appears in his field of vision, blurry and soft, as if he’s seeing him through an unfocussed camera. He coughs and tastes blood in his mouth.

“Palermo, look at me!” a voice insists and his head flops to his right to see Helsinki hovering next to him, eyes wide and panicked

“Hels’nki?” he slurs, eyes sliding shut.

There’s pressure on his chest, on his leg. There are hands patting his face.

“No, no, no. Stay awake,” Helsinki insists and Martín coughs up more blood.

“S’kay,” he says and then Andrés is there, right beside Helsinki. “It’s okay. This is better,” Martín chokes out as their faces double and blur together.

“We need to get those bullets out!” Andrés orders and Martín idly wonders who else has been shot.

Pain rips through him as he’s suddenly lifted into the air and then placed on some sort of flat surface.

“What’s happening?” he asks, desperately, the pain sharpening everything, helping him regain a modicum of coherence.

“We need to operate,” Helsinki tells him. “It’s okay, Palermo, it’s okay.”

“No,” Martín groans. “No just leave it. Just leave me.”

Andrés is back, voice cold as steel. “Absolutely not. We’re getting in contact with the surgeon now.”

Martín cries out as the pressure on his chest increases, Denver's hands pushing down on his ribs. “Please. Helsi please, don’t let them butcher me. Just let me go.”

“No,” Helsinki says, hands on either side of Martín’s face. “I’m not letting you die, Palermo. It’s not happening.”

“I’m sorry,” Martín says. “I’m sorry for how I treated you. I didn’t… I didn’t know how to accept it. What you were giving me. I would have tried to be what you want.”

Helsinki shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re going to get through this and we can talk about it after.”

Around them Martín can see the others rushing about and Andrés yelling at a computer screen. There’s pressure in his ears and Martín’s whole body feels like it’s floating, the pain is gone. “Tell Andrés…” he starts and Helsinki hushes him.

“No, tell him yourself when you’re better.”

Martín shakes his head, ignoring how black spots spring up in front of his eyes. “No, listen, Helsi. Tell Andrés I’m sorry I couldn’t be what he wanted.”

“Helsinki, we need to give him the anaesthetic,” someone says and Martín gives into the encroaching darkness before he can hear Helsinki’s response.

* * *

Waking up is like drowning. His chest is on fire and he gasps for breath that he can’t catch, his limbs dead-weights, dragging him down. He struggles and there’s hands on him. When he opens his eyes, it's to see an unfamiliar woman leaning over him.

“Wuh?” he asks intelligently and she smiles, handing him a cup of water to sip at.

“How are you feeling, Palermo?” she asks and he frowns at the name, looking around the room he’s in. It’s wood-panelled and half-dark with the curtains drawn.

“I’m still in the bank?” he asks with a groan and she nods.

“Yes. You’ve been unconscious for just over a day,” she tells him.

He groans again, trying to lift a hand to his face, and hissing when it sends shooting pains through his shoulder and chest.

“Be gentle with yourself,” the woman says. “Your friends removed three bullets and some lung tissue from you. You’ll be sore for a while yet.” She carefully helps him sit up, tutting as he grimaces in pain, stuffing pillows behind him.

“Where is everyone?” Martín asks.

“In the forge or with the other hostages,” the woman says. “Except for the big one, he’s over in the corner. He fell asleep about an hour ago, I think this is his break.”

She shifts and Martín looks at where she’s indicating to see Helsinki, fast asleep on a corporate looking sofa.

“I’m going to wake him now, I’ve been told to inform whoever’s nearest when you regain consciousness,” she says softly and Martín nods, even though he’s reluctant to have Helsinki disturbed.

The woman crosses the room and Helsinki startles out of his sleep the minute she touches his shoulder, gun clutched in his hands.

“He’s awake,” she tells him and Helsinki is on his feet in a second, hurrying to Martín’s side.

“Thank you, Paquita,” Helsinki says, looking over his shoulder.

Paquita nods. “I’ll go tell the others,” she says, before slipping out the door.

“Palermo,” Helsinki says, turning back to him and practically collapsing onto the chair next to the bed, which Paquita just vacated. “I’m so glad you’re awake.” He settles a hand into Martín’s hair, stroking his head gently.

“I’ve been out for a while, huh?” Martín asks and Helsinki nods.

“About twenty-six hours,” he says, glancing at the clock on the wall. He sags, his shoulders dropping. “I can't believe you’re okay.”

Martín sort of laughs and regrets it immediately, pain lancing through him. “Well, I’m pretty fucking sore, but at least I’m not dead.”

Helsinki doesn’t laugh with him. “It was close. Your heart stopped three… no four times. And we lost the surgeon when we were taking the bullet out of your knee. So, we don’t know about the mobility yet.”

“I was never much of a runner,” Martín jokes weakly and the corners of Helsinki’s mouth twitch.

He looks down at his hands, as if debating whether to speak. “Do you… do you remember what happened before you passed out? The things you were saying?”

Martín clenches his jaw, but nods tersely. “I do.”

“Did you mean it? That you wanted to…”

“To try to be what you want?” Martín finishes. “I did. I do – mean it, that is.”

Helsinki’s hand slides down from Martín’s hair to cradle his face. “What about Berlin? Do you still love him?”

Martín pushes into the touch, even as the question makes him want to shrink away. “Yes,” he eventually admits.

“It’s okay,” Helsinki assures him. “Do you… do you want to be with him?”

“No,” Martín says instantly. “I think that I’ve loved him in a wrong way for a long time and he’s hurt me too much for us to ever work, to ever be what I used to want.”

“And me?” Helsinki asks, far too timidly for such a physically imposing man.

“Am I in love with you?” Martín asks and Helsinki nods. “I think I can be. In the future. But I understand if you don’t want me, if it’s not worth the wait.”

A smile unfolds on Helsinki’s face. “I want you in any way I can have you, Palermo. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“Kiss me?” Martín asks and if he were feeling better, he’s sure he’d be blushing at how much it sounds like begging.

Helsinki doesn’t seem to mind though, carefully leaning forward and pressing his lips to Martín’s.

“Can’t believe we haven’t done that before,” Martín says a little breathlessly, when Helsinki eventually pulls away.

Helsinki grins. “That’s definitely not my fault.”

“No, I know,” Martín says. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, we’re here now,” Helsinki says, taking his hand.

There’s a sharp rap on the doorway and Andrés strides in. Helsinki squeezes Martín’s hand, before letting go and getting to his feet.

“I’ll take over with the hostages, if you want to talk?” he offers and Andrés nods.

He takes Helsinki’s place in the chair beside Martín, crossing his legs elegantly.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” he says, when Helsinki’s gone.

Martín almost smiles. “Me too.”

Andrés studies his face for the longest time. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he eventually says, his face drawn, looking older and more tired than Martín has ever seen him.

“I’m sorry,” Martín says. “I didn’t think. I should have expected them to shoot.”

Andrés nods. “It was stupid and you shouldn’t have done it. But we’ve all been stupid and thoughtless recently, haven’t we?”

“Andrés,” Martín says softly. “You don’t have to.”

“No, I need to say this. I’m sorry,” Andrés says, his hands reaching out to grip both of Martín’s. “What I did to you… it wasn’t right. I didn’t want to own up to how much I hurt you, how much I was still hurting you.” Martín doesn’t know what to say and Andrés continues. “I do love you, Martín, truly I do. But I think maybe you were right. We don’t love each other in the right ways for this to work out. You understand me better than anyone else and I love that about you, but it isn’t enough, is it?”

Martín shakes his head, tears dripping down his face and he’s shocked to see them mirrored on Andrés’ face. “Not anymore," he says, squeezing Andrés' fingers. It's freeing to say it, even though it hurts just as much. "We just can’t seem to get it right, can we?”

Andrés smiles sadly. “Maybe it’s for the best. The world could barely handle us together as friends.”

“We’ll still be friends though, won’t we?” Martín asks and Andrés nods.

“Of course. What’s an artist without his engineer?”

Martín sniffs. “You’ll have to introduce me to your son,” he says. “If we get out of here.”

“Oh, we’re getting out of here,” Andrés says firmly. “All of us. The police faked Lisbon’s execution and Sergio’s pissed. Hell hath no fury like a Professor whose only love was almost taken away from him.”

Martín huffs a laugh. “Well, let me know what you can do to help.”

Andrés nods. “I will. I’ll leave you to rest now. And I’ll send Helsinki back to you.”

“Thank you,” Martín tells him.

“Of course,” Andrés says, the pauses. “I only ever wanted you to be happy, you know?”

“I know,” Martín says. In his own twisted logic, he knows Andrés really did want that for him.

“It seems I was right the first time I left,” Andrés says from the doorway. “You’re better off without me.”

* * *

Martín is woken by the door banging open and a sudden influx of light flooding the room.

“No,” he says, turning his face away from the brightness, hiding his face in Helsinki’s chest. “Absolutely not.”

“Tío Martín, you promised we could fix the boat together,” a small voice says petulantly from the doorway.

Martín groans. “Yes I did, chico, but in the daytime, not in the middle of the night.”

“It’s nearly eleven. Papá said I could go wake you,” Dante insists.

“Well your papá and I are going to have to have a conversation about sending children into other people’s houses,” Martín grumbles and he feels Helsinki laugh.

“Tío Martín, please,” Dante begs, drawing out each word.

“Fine,” Martín relents. “Go downstairs and watch some TV okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Dante cheers and there’s the sound of small footsteps disappearing. Helsinki strokes his hair and Martín yawns against his skin.

“Only Andrés would have a child that fucking entitled,” he mutters and Helsinki laughs again.

“You love him though,” he says and Martín rolls onto his back, head pillowed on Helsinki’s stomach.

“He’s fine.”

Helsinki presses a kiss to his forehead, rubbing a hand across Martín’s chest and the ugly scars marring it. “Don’t be like that, душо. You know you love him and the fact that you’re his favourite uncle and not the Professor.”

“That’s just because I didn’t give him Russian literature for his birthday,” Martín says grumpily.

Helsinki smiles. “Yes, that’s why,” he says indulgently. “Are you going to get up? I’m supposed to meet Nairobi for lunch as well you know.”

“You live two minutes apart and have lunch every second day,” Martín complains, his eyes sliding shut again. “You can spend some time with me, your devoted partner.”

“Hm, I’m not sure I want to,” he teases and Martín scowls, eyes flying open again.

He sits up, turning and crawling bodily into Helsinki’s lap. “Mirko, I’m beginning to think you’re getting tired of me.”

“Never, љубљени,” Helsinki says sincerely and lets Martín kiss him lazily.

It would have been a rather nice moment if Andrés’ spawn didn’t start yelling their names downstairs.

“I’m going to have Andrés neutered,” Martín says, burying his face in Helsinki’s neck. “He should never have been allowed to reproduce in the first place.”

“Stop bitching and go and have breakfast with your godchild. You know he’ll be back up if you don’t leave now,” Helsinki says, kissing him again.

Martín sighs and climbs out of bed, pulling on some shorts and a t-shirt. He turns in the doorway. “You better be down soon too, I’m not dealing with him alone.”

“I love you too,” Helsinki says and Martín flips him off.

“You’re on thin fucking ice, mi amor. You’re lucky I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was all incoherent, massively ooc drivel, congrats if you made it to the end!  
> come yell at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


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